


Dear...

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johns note to Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:05:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was hit pretty hard when Sherlock fell to his death. This is his letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear...

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old thing i wrote to make my friend cry and it worked. Just thought that i should get it out there.

Dear. That was the only thing he had on the paper. It being the only word that came to mind when he decided to write a letter. It was the common heading, along with someones name of course. 'Dear so-and-so'. The word had really no right to be there, yet every right. And this confused him as he sat there in the room. 

The room. That was what he called it now. Not a living room, not a drawing room. Just a room. Ever since the happenings a few months ago, he couldn't really call it anything else. Once a room filled with a manic mans ramblings was now a room full of another mans sorrow. The course of events that led him to today were all but a blur, just time moving forward and time forgetting a great man. 

Dear. And now he was back to staring at the page. The letters seemed foreign to him as he stared at the almost blank sheet of paper. The white of the page seeming to grow brighter as the sun peaked through the closed curtain and shone upon the lone piece of paper. The little ray of sun being the most amount of light he had seen in a while.

Everyone had told him to go out, get a move on with his life and stop thinking back to what he saw that day. But he couldn't. At least, not for a while. Now he only left at night, preferring to go out when no one he knew was awake. He didn't want to see the pity in their eyes nor hear their pointless small talk. He was okay and even if he wasn't, he was getting there. 

Dear. The word that was supposed to follow almost seeming impossible to form. He hadn't said nor thought that name in the weeks that had passed. Sure, he would think of the man who shared the flat with him, but only by face, never by name. He couldn't even get himself to think of the name now. Afraid writing it would conjure up the memories he had locked away. The memories that he now took precedence in guarding over the haunting ones of the wars he has seen. 

Dear. It all comes back to that one word. The simplest yet most complex word. Or at least he thought so. The tears came now, as he forced himself to try to finish the header. It was like physical torture to him, putting the pen to the page. His muscles seemed to shriek in protest as he slowly bent his wrist to begin the first letter. 

His hand was shaking, sweat coated his brow. It shouldn't have been that difficult to write a name surely. You just start with the first letter. Start with the S, his mind seemed to encourage him, coax him into starting the letter after an hour of staring at the paper. This might have been the worse thing he had been forced to do, and it was made even more so by the fact that it was HE who was doing the forcing. 

By the end of the 'S' his hand still shook making the letter appear wonky in a sense. Now if he could just finish the rest of the name. Maybe if he looked at the writing objectively, if he stuffed his emotions way down deep enough so they wouldn't get in the way. He knew he could never really force them down that deeply, but the other choice was to never finish the letter. And although that seemed the most happiest road at the moment, he knew that it would later come back to bite him in the arse. 

He tried, oh how he tried to keep his feelings in check, under reign, but it was hard. His throat formed a lump, but it felt more like several, as he set down the pen to look over the name he had written. It had the look of a three year olds penmanship. The lines and curves that should have been smooth from years of writing were nothing but bad representations of their former selves. In comparison to the word next to it, the 'dear' that created the letter, the name was but a randomly placed string of letters that had no reason to be there, placed there on the page as if by pure accident. 

He set aside his pen, believing that the hard part had already passed. And, in truth, it had. For, not even a couple of seconds later, he picked up his pen once again, the words flowing from his mind to the page. His brain had a direct link to his hand, not slowing down even when the words got jumbled together in his haste to keep up with the string of thoughts his mind had let loose. It was like a floodgate had opened, the words seeming easy to find once he got over his initial hesitation. 

Once he finally put down the pen, he was almost done with the backside of the next page. And it seemed that his words rambled, the sentences seemingly random as he reread over his own writing. In truth, he knew Sherlock would be able to make sense of the mess. And thats where he paused. Had writing this letter really have been that easy to get rid of all his pent up emotions? Had putting thought to paper really released all this stress? Enough so that he even casually thought his flatmates name-correction: used to be flatmates name?

He shook his head, daring a brief chuckle before going back to staring at the page. It all depended upon the receiver, if he was alive or not. And he so badly wanted Sherlock to be alive and breathing, so much so that the want was confusing and he was scared of it a little. In the course of two simple years he had gotten closer to this seemingly unsociable man than even his own flesh and blood sister. This emotion that rose up at the very mention of him was alarming and altogether thrilling in and of itself. 

But it could not be true, right? That his flatmate survived. For he saw with his own eyes, witnessed the man jump off the ledge of Bart's. No, not jump. Jump wasn't the right word, for the man looked prepared for it, as if he calculated the exact layout of his demise. It wouldn't surprise him if Sherlock had done just that, the man deducing his own downfall. Still, jump was not the correct term for what exactly Sherlock did. If he had to compare to to something, he would say it was like watching a person swan dive off the edge, his form graceful for a few seconds until-he believed-that reality set in. But, in truth, 'swan dive' did not even come close to what it was that Sherlock had done. 

He looked over the letter once more, fixing the wordage a little bit and adding in some after thoughts. He thought it wouldn't be right to sign it, as if he was going to get a reply, like he was expecting one to come. Instead he just put one simple sentence at the end of the letter. 

'I am still residing at 221B if you are to happen to be alive and reading this, if not, then farewell my friend, and keep living on in that mind palace of yours.'

JW


End file.
